Catch and Release
by Lady Karasu
Summary: " He  briefly wondered if he could reasonably call off 'on account of kidnapping and sedation'..."    -Mycroft's 'interview' techniques have not evolved much over the years; Lestrade's first meeting with 'big brother'.-


Title: Catch and Release  
>Characters: Lestrade, Mycroft<br>Rating: PG  
>Word Count: 1763<br>Warnings: None. Well, first fic for this fandom - that merits a warning.  
>Beta(s): juliacarmen and novadiab1o [via livejournal], who are lovely and<br>amazing and made me not sound like an idiot. Which is always appreciated.  
>Originally Posted: 827/11

Counterpart to 'This is a Test' by morganstuart, which can be read, here:  
>morganstuart (dot) livejournal (dot) com  12711 (dot) html

oOoOo

It was a little while before his head cleared all the way; not too long, he thought, but it was hard to tell. Much of his morning was a blur, but the drug they had used wasn't strong – if his sense of time wasn't completely off, he figured an hour, two at most, before he could think straight again – but it did make him a little more… _pliant _through his abduction. Abduction and robbery, he amended: his phone was gone.

Of the many possible reactions bubbling under the surface, he chose to go for 'frustrated irritation'. A Detective Inspector with 20 years under his belt, kidnapped on his way to work, in broad daylight, on a fairly busy street. There was just no way he would live this down any time soon. Gregson would be unbearable for months.

He got up abruptly – certain he could do so without falling over this time. No one had come or gone since he was left in the chair, but he was cautious of trying to leave. Obviously, someone had brought him here for a reason, and not learning what (or who) it was didn't strike him as the smart move. Not when he'd been taken so easily in the middle of a crowd. There was also the unknown factor of how intent his captors would be on keeping him here.

Here and he'd thought his biggest problems today would be the nasty murder case sitting on his desk (the DI was sure the husband was good for it, smarmy bastard, but he had no _evidence_) and the related realization that he would have to call that Holmes bloke, after all. Well, at least then he'd be able to put one of them in jail; that would be an improvement.

Lestrade chuckled darkly, walking in a slow circle around his seat – testing his body and gauging his surroundings more closely. The warehouse was fairly nondescript; there was obviously electrical work being done – a number of lights were out, and some of the fixtures seemed to be empty, cords and wires hanging out here and there.

It was – in a word – creepy.

All it lacked for the classic thriller feel were the hanging plastic tarps — no, there were a few sheets to the far left, partially obscured in shadow (concealing new fixtures awaiting installation) – and a sparking live wire, somewhere. Well, the movie cliché had to come from somewhere, he supposed.

Finally, another light to one end of the space came on, and he turned to it, bracing himself with a firm stance and crossing his arms. The door opening failed to surprise him.

The man who entered, however… he was now more than a little convinced he should have gone with his first instinct this morning and stayed in bed. Then again, with his luck, his flat would have been trashed and he'd still be here.

The new arrival was tall and confident – he strode into the room like he owned it, and stopped to casually lean on his umbrella just far enough away to demand attention yet remain out of reasonable attacking distance – the _actual_ distance, Lestrade noted, not the distance most people would (incorrectly) think was safe. A man could move quite quickly when properly motivated, after all. He suspected that umbrella did more than keep the rain off, too.

This… this did not bode well. Instinct told him he was looking at no middle-man, and experience told him that if the 'boss' didn't like answers in these sort of meetings, Lestrade quickly became a witness to be disposed of. Great. Just… bleeding great.

"Right," he said abruptly, no intention of playing passive even at a disadvantage, "I get the message. You have money. Connections. You're bold enough to nick a DI off the street in broad daylight."

The man in front of him was obviously dangerous, but he wouldn't get his hands dirty if he could avoid it. Not the type. So… His eyes scanned the warehouse, looking for the danger; no snipers in sight – but that didn't mean they weren't there. He'd bet his next paycheck there were at least two. No telltale glint of light on metal or glass; whoever they were they knew what they were doing. Licking dry lips, he said, "So tell me what the hell you're playing at."

"Please, Detective Inspector." The boss waved his hand, unconcerned. At _least_ two snipers, then. "Let's not begin on the wrong note."

Sour chord, more like. No, stop it Greg – not helping. Right, so _good_ snipers – unknown additional backup: the man was too calm, didn't look to check his men at all, confident; any attempt to attack wouldn't even get close – so offense is out, and so is bolting. Brilliant.

He bit back the urge to sigh. All said and done, there were only two likely reasons for him being here right now- might as well get on with it.

"Let's not waste time, either. I'd thought word got around after the Vassellas bust and Donegal case: I won't be bought."

Nothing was going to change that any time soon; and both of those attempts had been approached on more neutral ground – designed to lure him in; that's how a deal like that was really approached - that this meeting was so predatory in nature, so obviously showing off the other man's power- well, avoiding it wouldn't make it go away…

"If this is a hit," and it had all the earmarks of one. He had never really expected it, but he knew this job came with risks – occupational hazard – but not like this. This was just – _insulting_, "then just get on with it, yeah? Spare me the Bond-villain monologue."

There was no verbal response; the other man simply watched him, and he could feel calculating eyes picking him apart, weighing him, trying to get inside his head; psych him out. Of course he wouldn't get the normal, well-adjusted crime-boss who just wanted to kill him; he had to get a control freak with power issues. Because this was obviously a power trip – if it were just a hit to get him out of the way, it would have taken one shot from a building along his route to work: clean, easy, no big production and as a bonus, he'd never even have seen it coming. It frankly would have been the polite thing to do, all things considered. This? This was just rubbing it in. This was clearly to convey how little his life was worth, how easy he was to take. Maybe this guy got off on fear. He refused to show any.

Lestrade lifted his chin, waiting. A part of his mind absently wondered where the shot would come from. It was pointless to look, so he didn't try. He didn't see a way out, and he wouldn't panic, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing it. If that's the only resistance he could manage, well then, that's what he'd take. Instead he held the other man's gaze and stared back for all he was worth.

If he was lucky, it would be quick. If he was not lucky – well, maybe it'll be interesting enough for the 'consulting detective' who's been approaching him lately to take an interest. He's fought down a vicious little grin at the prospect of setting Holmes on this man. While certainly not conventional, he was good and surprisingly tenacious. Pretty sure he wouldn't give up until the case was solved, insulting the perp along the way - and that thought he _does_ revel in.

Lestrade fought down another sudden urge to grin and wondered if it was healthy to find humor this sort of situation. At about that time the boss smiled, (and really, that's never a good thing), he felt a sharp pain in his neck, and had just enough time to feel for the dart there before his knees met hard concrete. He couldn't help the snort of resigned amusement before things went black.

When he woke, which was in itself a surprise, he was on his own couch (and didn't that punctuate the day nicely – time to change the locks again) and briefly wondered if he could reasonably call off 'on account of kidnapping and sedation'. He was pretty sure it wasn't worth the harassment.

Taking a few moments to revel in the fact that he was still breathing air and not a crime scene waiting to be discovered, he looked down and noticed a silver cylinder sitting on a typed note. He leaned over to read:

**I noticed you have not yet had time for your morning coffee. As our meeting caused  
>you to reschedule your day, I have taken the liberty of providing a carafe for your<br>convenience. Cream and sugar have already been added, as per your normal preferences.**

**No, it is not poisoned.**

**Kindly look after baby brother for me, he can be such a handful. You appear up to the**  
><strong>task, and it is most inconvenient to schedule these interviews.<strong>

**Good day.**

**-MH**

_Right_. He didn't think post-kidnapping gifts were normal, but hey – nothing else today had been, so why not? And 'baby brother'? Who was that? No new members of his team… no new suspects, even, the only new person- no. _No._

MH…. M… Holmes? _Oh hell_.

He let loose a long suffering sigh, closing his eyes long enough to contemplate going back to bed again. _No, deal with it and move on._Flipping the note to scribble a reply on the back that he was disturbingly certain would be received if left on his table – he wrote:

**Next time, try my phone; it's the accepted social norm.**

**Also, please stop drugging me. It's bad for morale. Primarily mine.**

**G. Lestrade**

Twenty minutes later he was on his way to work, again, but paused to add:

**Ps. Good coffee – what is it?**

oOoOo**  
><strong>

Epilogue:

After his shift (including the fairly satisfactory collaring of one no-longer-smarmy murderous husband, and an unbelievably even more cocky Sherlock), he was unsurprised to find a fresh carafe waiting in his kitchen, and wondered at his sanity that the note made him laugh, rather than indignant at the blatant housebreaking.

**Will tell if you keep tabs on Baby Brother for me.**

**-MH**

He just flipped the note again, writing:

**Told you I won't be bought. Not even for really good coffee.**

**G. Lestrade**

-and settled in to enjoy a cup. Not like he was sleeping any time soon, anyway. He had locks to change; for all the good he expected it would do.

oOoOo

AN: I wanted to keep this strictly to the dialogue given in the original Mycroft POV, but I did promise the 'catch and release' portion of his kidnapping, so it's a bit more involved on either end. Quotes from 'This is a Test' used with permission.


End file.
